THE PORCUPINE

Evening Star, Issue 21717, 11 May 1934, Page 5

THE PORCUPINE

A COMIC CREATURE HIS GRAVING FOR SALT The quill-pig is the most independent creature you could possibly imagine, and perhaps he can defend himself better than any other animal. His armament is a truly wonderful affair. On his back he carries fifteen hundred quills, and on each quill there are several hundred poison-tipped barbs. The strange thing about the barbs is that they are a development of the hair, and although he never seems to drop one of them they are attached so lightly to the skin that they are as soon as the barbs enter flesh. This latter l fact gave rise to the fairy tales about porcupines shooting their quills, a thing no self-respecting quill-pig would think of doing, writes Harper Cory, in the ‘ Manchester Guardian.’ Normally the quills lie along the body, partly hidden in the under-fur, and at such times the quill-pig looks a harmlessly stupid and awkward animal. His looks are deceptive. If he _ is alarmed or attacked he erects his quills and hastens to hide his nose under a stone or a log. Then he looks decidedly unpleasant, for his whole back is a mass of sharp-pointed spears. These vary in length from lin on the head and tail to 4in on the body. Yet it is with the short quills on the tail that he inflicts the most severe damage. He lashes his tail ferociously from side to side, and if he hits his attacker that animal gets a present of a dozen or more quills of which he cannot be rid. FATAL BARBS. As soon as the quills enter the flesh the barbs are moistened and curl inward. Once they have curled they must be cut out—they cannot be pulled out, and as often as not the animal wounded runs away howling. The muscular exercise works the quills deeper into the body, with fatal results. ‘ It is a terrible punishment, and consequently few animals will attack the porcupine unless they are extremely hungry. 1 cannot blame them, for I have found dead lynxes in the woods; quills had pierced their mouths in such a way that they could not eat—they had died of starvation. I am told that tigers have died from the same cause. One might imagine that the porcupine, being so well protected, would be a cheerful animal, but the truth is that he is the most miserable creature on four legs. He whines when he is born in August, sniffs and grunts when mating, shrieks when he discovers a dainty dinner, groans when he is stealing from the grub-tent—his entire vocabulary consists of doleful noises. And yet there are times when he is supremely happy. A stable is a paradise to him, for there are always a few bits of harness within his reach, and dubbin is used to keep the leather soft and pliable. So the quill-pig eats the leather to enjoy the salt in the dubbin. More to his liking is the mess table in a logging camp—there is sure to be one clumsy diner who will spill his salty soup on the table. PEST OF COOKS. In that case the porcupine makes a hole in the table as he devours wood and salt combined. And if he cannot obtain nourishment from the table he will prowl round until he discovers the cook’s salt-saturated soup ladles. Next day the cook will use bad language as he searches for ladles the porcupine has consumed. This craving for salt makes the porcupine a pest around a logging camp. It is useless trying to drive him away —ho always returns. If he can sneak into a tent while the loggers are sleeping he dines on their dubbin-coated boots, eating chunks out of the softer uppers. Yet no logger would dream of killing a quill-pig—he may become too valuable. His diet does not consist entirely of salty things, and he will make a feast of juicy lily-pads or other forms of vegetation. In Canada he spends most of his time in the trees. He may climb a tree and stay aloft for several days. When he descends the tree looks as though it had been blasted by lightning, for the porcupine completely denudes the branches and boughs of their bark. His long, orange-coloured teeth are extremely sharp, and help him to make short work of discarded deer antlers which he finds in the woods; the antlers, of course, contain much salty material. He is far too unsociable to share the antler with another of his kind, even though that one be his mother or his brother. He flies into a rage if an intruder tries to share his find, and then there is a battle—a really comical affair. The two warriors waddle up against each other, then they push and shove with much grunting and wheezing until one of them tires of the warfare and waddles away moaning. ' WHY HE IS LIKED. The porcupine is not over-fond of water, except as a drink; hence the legend that he canont swim. He has no need to swim. His hollow quills are filled with air, and so they buoy him up when afloat. All he needs to do is to paddle, and this he does lazily, grunting with disgust at this slight effort. He is not a great traveller, and I doubt if during his entire lifetime he wanders further than two miles from the spot where he was born. Under such circumstances one might justifiably expect' him to have a cosy home. Not he. He is quite content with a hole in the rocks or in the stump of a decaying tree. He does not mind what his lodgings are like so long as he can sleep with his vulnerable nose under cover and his tail hanging free, with plenty of room in which to swing it if necessary. The porcupine has little affection for his offspring after they are six months old, and they return his disregard with interest. Usually the young take mates when about fifteen months old, and if the parents trespass on the territories of the young couples they are driven away. Yet, in spite of his failings, backwoodsmen have a warm affection for the porcupine. True it is that he can be quite a pest at times. But when food is scarce and the woodman is faced with death by starvation the porcupine is easily caught, and his flesh when cooked tastes like roast pork. Hence the name “ quill-pig.” That is why those who live in the woods do not molest him—he is their walking life insurance policy.